Finally, I give up and head toward the arrivals area.
Outside, the air is warmer than I expect. Thicker. It hits my skin like something unfamiliar, like I’ve stepped into a different version of the world without fully meaning to.
I stand near the pickup area, scanning the line of cars.
At least I have my backpack, containing my makeup and charger and a few other items. Thankfully, it also has my laptop and I have my cell phone. That’s all I need to get my work done.
And then I see him.
Soren.
He’s leaning against a dark sedan, sunglasses on, posture loose in a way that feels deliberate. Like he knows exactly how he looks and has decided it’s enough.
When he spots me, he doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call out. He just pushes off the car and starts walking toward me.
His pace is casual. Like this moment was always going to happen.
My breath catches before I can stop it. He’s… different.
Not dramatically. At least not in a way I can immediately explain. But the version of him I remember feels unfinished in comparison—like I’m looking at something that’s been sharpened, refined, stripped down to only what works.
He’s a lot taller than I remember, or maybe he just carries it differently—at least 6’5, looming about a full foot above me. Broader through the shoulders, solid in a way that doesn’t feel like it came from a gym.
His presence shifts the space around him as he moves, people stepping slightly out of his path without really noticing they’re doing it.
The tattoos stand out next—dark ink winding up his forearms and disappearing beneath his sleeves. Intentional. Like everything else about him. Those are definitely new—I would have rememberedthosefor sure.
As well as the one on his neck. I can’t quite make it out from here, but it almost looks like the legs of a spider jutting out from under his collar.
There’s a faint scar along his jaw I don’t recognize. Small, but it changes something. Adds weight.
His hair, dirty blond with ashy undertones. It’s on the long side, brushing his shoulders.
His skin, a light olive that speaks to being outside without trying too hard to tan.
I remember him being attractive, but my memory apparently deleted the information that he’s hot as hell. A very tall, very hot tattooed man, and he just flew me here for the weekend.
Heat stirs low in my core.
And then his eyes land on me. No sunglasses now. He’s taken them off at some point in the last few steps, and I didn’t even notice.
But now I do. His eyes are the most magnificent gray, intenseand piercing, like there’s a storm going on within him. Like he can see right through me.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t skim. It settles. Steady. Focused. As if he’s appraising me the same way I’m soaking in every detail of him.
Something low in my stomach tightens.
By the time he reaches me, I’m still trying to place the feeling.
“You made it,” he says. Not a question. Just a statement, like there was never another version of events where I didn’t.
“Hey,” I reply, and my voice comes out softer than I intend.
He glances at the backpack in my hand. “You traveled light.”
“I brought a suitcase,” I say. “But it’s not here.”
“I know.”